


Relieved of Duty

by Revenna



Series: R E L I G I O N [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Depression, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gay, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, PTSD, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach, Suicide, duh - Freeform, ish, mostly true to canon, previously established johnlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:47:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7862359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenna/pseuds/Revenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is dead, and 221B Baker Street is empty. John spends his final day before moving out reflecting on him and Sherlock, and he can't help but wonder if any of it truly was a lie. What lies ahead without his self-assured detective accomplice?</p><p>Can be read independent of its series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The rain hissed outside of 221B, the only sound beyond his pulse that dare interrupt the silence that had fallen on the flat. John had only been able to bear the sight of the flat for a week and a half before making the decision to leave. He would be shipped out in two more, having requested a longer stay.

He told himself it was to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and all of the comforts of home he'd had here. But that wasn't the full truth. 

In a way, he knew he was still waiting for Sherlock to come back. He had seen the blood, felt his wrist, and touched skin whose warmth he could feel as it left. But Sherlock shouldn't be dead. Sherlock should be whisking himself into the flat at any moment with his collar popped, ready to fire off into an explanation of how this had given him the one-up on Moriarty. Just five more minutes until it happened. 

Ten more.

Another hour and surely he would be playing his violin next to the window where John stood, staring out at the sidewalk as if on watch for him. He had been there since he'd woken up, four hours ago. 

One more hour and Sherlock would come back. 

John felt a twinge in his leg and kicked the wall pointedly to "fix" it before turning around and half-limping into the kitchen. Sherlock would like some tea when he came back. John would brew it strong the way he used to take it, and maybe that would make time go faster. The kettle made it halfway to the stove before he lost track of his motivation and went to go sit down in his chair, but stopped to stare at the violin that laid in the chair across from him. There was sheet music tucked under it, crumpled and printed out, probably using John's laptop. He wandered towards it tentatively, and pulled the paper out. 

He couldn't have tried to read the music if he tried- he had no musical training. But the top of the page read " _Chanson Hindou; Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov"._ There was a note at the bottom, scribbled on with black pen. "John's favorite". 

John's chest started to hurt, and he felt himself choking up. He had to sit down to bear the pain of that very simple little note. Which one of his favorites was this? The one that he had told Sherlock about, or one the detective had figured out on his own?  
Hand shaking, he laid the paper down on a side table and rushed on weak legs to go fetch his laptop. When he came back to sit down, he looked it up, finger hovering above the track pad before tapping play. 

The piano intro was new, but when the violin came in, he recognized it immediately. No words, of course- it was a classical piece. He remembered asking Sherlock to record it, and of course he obliged, and when John asked him to dance, so did he dance. Sherlock had pretended not to enjoy himself, but truth be told, when not in public, Sherlock was somewhat fond of dancing. 

The gentle serenade of not-Sherlock's-violin went on for hours. John refused to stop clicking repeat, and at some point Mrs. Hudson tapped on his door and entered. 

"Oh, dear," she said, voice cracking. John knew immediately that she recognized it too, at least as one that Sherlock played often. "John..." 

She stepped further into the flat and grabbed John's hand in hers, looking at him with those cute, round old lady eyes that begged to be comforted. It was funny how Mrs. Hudson had a way of doing that to people. Even Sherlock hadn't been able to resist her delicate motherly charms, and treated her like a queen. Actually, he treated her much better than he had the queen. 

John tried not to look too lifeless as he looked down to her, but the look she returned told him he'd failed. Her eyes watered, and John felt his sting, but he refused to cry. Not in front of Mrs. Hudson. 

"Come here," he said, and pulled her in for a hug. 

Mrs. Hudson sniffled and wept into his shirt, leaving splotches of mascara on the clean white cloth. John didn't bother trying to clean it. There were plenty more white shirts in the world, and only one Mrs. Hudson. 

No more Sherlocks, though. 

His grasp tightened for a moment until Mrs. Hudson was done and pulled away, immediately starting to fret over his shirt. 

"Good grief look at what I've done to your poor shirt," she said, "It's stained, oh dear let me try and..." 

She rubbed it with a thumb, but mostly just managed to smear it. 

"Don't worry about it, Mrs. Hudson," he insisted and plucked a tissue to gently wipe a tear off her cheek. She sniffled at him. 

"What am I going to do without you two boys?" 

John smiled sadly, brushing his nose with a thumb in his own way of showing hesitation. 

"Oh, I imagine you'll have nice quiet lunches down in Speedy's, and sleep perfectly through the night without any gunshots," he said, rocking back on his heels and looking down at the intricate carpet. 

"Where's the fun?" She said, laughing. 

John sniffed unconvincingly as she excused herself and then lingered at the door. 

"Sherlock would want you to be happy, John," she advised. "He did love you."

"Mrs. Hudson, we were not... I was not his boyfriend," John insisted, looking dubious. But when Mrs. Hudson closed the door to leave, he leaned his forehead against the wall and let a tear fall. 

John was not Sherlock's boyfriend because Sherlock always used the term lover. It was one of those endearing things about his partner that was intriguing and amusing at first but quickly became another one of his quirks to love.

The song ended and John tapped the repeat button, hot tears leaking from his eyes sparingly as he tried to keep his personal dignity. 

The violins sang woefully, and John closed his eyes. It didn't sound like Sherlocks playing, but for just a moment, John could pretend it was that same familiar bow being drawn over sweet strings by the same hands that, just last week, would run through his hair to wake him up from his fitful dreams every morning.

For just half a second, Sherlock Holmes was back in 221B playing John's favorite song for him.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the tenth of October, 2013. Sherlock Holmes had died on the twentieth of November, two years ago. John sat down in his chair in the apartment where he and Mary had been living for three out of the seven months they had been dating. She was out right now. Her shift had demanded an extra four hours, because one of the nurses called in sick.

So now it was just John, alone in the flat, with a seemingly blank disc in his hands.

Sherlock had prerecorded a message for John's birthday a few years ago because he "had a thing" and wouldn't be there for dinner. Lestrade had just dropped off the uncut version along with a few of Sherlock's other things.

John remembered that birthday. He had spent a good deal of his evening pacing the streets around the flat, wanting to revisit Baker Street for the nostalgia, but knowing what it might do to him. In the end, he had gone back "home" and curled up next to Mary, who was easy to forgive his sudden aloofness. Bless her for her understanding.

John pushed the disc into the player and watched the TV click to life.

"What do I- What do you want me to do at the end? Should I smile and wink? I do that sometimes, I have no idea why. People seem to like it."

John took another sip of whiskey.  _Sherlock, you have no idea._

"Why am I doing this again?" 

Because you're going to miss dinner, Lestrade reminded him. 

"Of course I'm going to miss dinner, there'll be  _people_... How can John be having a birthday dinner, all of his friends hate him." 

The corners of John's mouth twitched. Of course all of his friends hated him. He hated them, too. It was just how people managed to cope with the fact that they all lived together. They tolerated each other and sometimes they found people they actually liked.

"I wrote an essay based on suppressed hatred in close proximity based entirely on his friends... In reflection, probably wasn't a very good gift."

John huffed in laughter. No, that was a shitty gift, but it had made him laugh later after he was initially done lecturing Sherlock on what was an acceptable gift.

"Right, I just... need a moment to figure out what I'm going to do." Sherlock walked off, pacing. 

"Now I can tell you what you can do," John murmured hopelessly, a vain thought that had nagged him since the day Sherlock died on the tip of his tongue. "You could stop being dead."

"Okay," Sherlock replied. 

John glanced back up at the television, surprised for that very brief split second that his mind tried to think Sherlock had actually responded. 

"I'm ready now. Hello, John. I'm sorry I'm not there at the moment, I'm very busy. However, many happy returns."

And here they were back at the cut version.

"Although don't worry; I'm going to be with you very soon."

That sentence struck John like a punch to the nose. He had no reason to take that to heart, he knew. There were many stupid coincidences that had ground a little bit of hope into his heart each time he found them, one at a time like little grains of rice, but he learned not to put any faith in them. Sherlock Holmes was dead, and he was making it hard on himself. 

But then, it was never going to be easy. The doorbell rang and he paused the clip, standing up and heading to the doorway to receive a package. 

He took the box in his hands and jiggled it a little bit. Shoes for Mary. He scribbled his signature on the line, thanked the doorman, set her package on the mantle, and then clicked play. All that was left was a four second clip of Sherlock doing that stupid smile-and-wink thing. John felt an old, familiar ache try to chisel away at him. 

"Just stop being dead," he sighed, rubbing his eyes. They stung, but he was well trained, and managed not to stand in the middle of his own living room blubbering over something that happened two years ago. "Just... stop." 

His voice was tired, he realized. Very tired. He suddenly wished Mary would come home, but that wouldn't be happening for another hour and a half, and he'd rather not have her come home to him slouched over and passed out on himself in his chair like he was an old man. So he did the next best thing, changed into a t-shirt and boxers, and laid down in the bed.

He faced the window, eyebrows furrowed solemnly, and a tear finally dripped out of the corner of his eye. He blamed it on the fact that he was laying sideways, and that usually made his eyes water anyway. 

But before he fell asleep, he hummed a very short tune to himself. 

_Chanson Hindou, by Nikolai RImsy-Karsakov._

_John's favorite._

 


End file.
